


Attraction

by wyldehart



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Romance, F/M, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24464386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyldehart/pseuds/wyldehart
Summary: On the night of the great Breach's closing, Cullen finds himself unable to sleep and finds solace in the company of the Herald of Andraste. Together, they realize that perhaps there is the chance for more than friendship between them.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Kudos: 17





	Attraction

Late in the night after the Herald had successfully closed the massive breach in the sky, Cullen awoke, his eyes on the shadowed ceiling above him as he contemplated what he wanted to do next. Out in the courtyard, people continued to celebrate while he and a few others, the Herald included, had gone to their beds. He shivered, hugging his blankets close as his eyes scanned the room; must it always be so cold? Haven was always cold, colder than South Reach, where his family now lived, which was fair, temperate, with predictable seasons that never left one guessing. Haven, built high into the mountains, was snow packed on ice, packed on stone with more snow thrown in for sport.

He hated it.

He missed home, missed the Circle, missed his job, but that job, that life… he closed his eyes and rolled over, pressing his face into his pillow as tears came to his eyes. That entire part of him was finished. It needed to be if he was to move forward with helping Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine begin their Inquisition. They had needed a military commander with a head for strategy and experience commanding large numbers of men and he was that man. The fact that he came with a Templar’s taste for lyrium and a thirst that even that precious drug could not fully slate was not apparently not an issue to the three ambitious women.

The fact that he had immediately ceased taking said drug and withdrawal was having a negative effect on him that he silently hid from everyone, especially Leliana, who enjoyed lightly teasing him, was also of no consequence. Cassandra was the only one who knew the extent of his addiction and she had advised a slow, gradual elimination of it until it was gone from his system. Cullen Stanton Rutherford was not a man who did things slowly, however, preferring an all or nothing strategy in most cases. He quit taking the lyrium all at once, refusing even a drop beginning just a little more than a fortnight before tonight.

He had grown used to the cold sweats, the shivers and the burning irritability, which many mistook as part of his personality. It wasn’t, but he didn’t correct them. He had assumed that the lack of the drug meant that his abilities as a Templar would fade, which surprisingly was not the case. The Hero of Ferelden, Queen to King Alistair, had once written, with her husband’s support, the following highly controversial passage:

_“…For mages, Lyrium enhances magical power and allows them to cast more often. For Templars, however, it is said that Lyrium enhances the opposite effect; by which I mean that it allows Templars to cancel out magic and see the power the mage builds, and thus control it should the mage get out of hand. My husband, a Templar who never took Lyrium (as he was still a trainee at the time of his conscription to the Grey Wardens) was able not only able to use his Templar abilities but to train them in me without the use of lyrium. We have both frequently shut down rogue mages without the need for the stuff, which brings us both to a frightening conclusion: The Chantry uses lyrium to chemically chain Templars both to their charges and to their job, effectively allowing the Order to control them. We liken lyrium to the mage’s phylactery, which binds the mage to the circle even if he or she flees. Equally, the Templar is bound, and should he attempt to abandon the Order, he may be readily tracked down by his commanders in the slums where Lyrium is sold on the black market, and subsequently returned to his post. Therefor, we recommend that the Order cease the use of Lyrium, as Templar abilities do not rely on lyrium, and may actually benefit more greatly from its cessation.”_

It was from this passage that Cullen had taken the courage to stop taking lyrium. On multiple occasions since, he had asked Solas to help him test the findings the Ferelden royal couple had made in the course of their journey across the country to unite it against the Darkspawn and found, much to his surprise, that they were right! Solas had a command of magical power that exceeded that of most circle-trained mages, yet Cullen was able to shut down Solas’ spells with quite possibly even more efficacy than before he stopped taking it. The practice, along with training from Cassandra, emboldened him, hardening his resolve to work through the discomfort.

Naturally, the Chantry immediately banned the passage and destroyed all writs it was attached to for the sake of keeping the Order “pure” from blasphemous ideas despite its source. King Alistair responded by having it plastered on the walls of every tavern between Denerim and Lake Calenhad, where Templars may find themselves eager for cold pint. His copy had come from Varric, whose observant gaze recognized the slight tremor in Cullen’s hand during shield practice.

“Look, it’s not my place but… I got something for you. Take it for what it’s worth, whether it’s courage or inspiration, whatever strengthens you.” The dwarf pulled the neatly copied passage out of a book, as if he had been saving it for him, and pressed it into his hand.

Cullen had dutifully committed the passage to memory and recalled it any time he needed to reinforce his resolve, as he did now. He didn’t need lyrium, though at times a taste would have been wonderful. However, he did need to use the privy, which was outside his room, at the end of the long hallway. He sat up and swung his muscular legs over the edge of the bed, cringing as his bare feet touched the cold stone floor. Not for the first time, he questioned the lack of a rug by the bed, or at least his shoes, which were against the wall. The distance was too great, and each step would be torment as he made his way across the room.

He hurried across the floor and slid his feet gratefully in the fleece-lined leather slippers his sister, Mia, had given him for his birthday. She always knew how to make him smile. Cullen then slid his legs into a soft, flowing pair of pale brown pants more for modesty than warmth, as he generally slept naked when he had the choice. He then pulled a long shirt, made of the same flowing material as his pants, over his head and followed it with a knee-length robe made of thick multicolored homespun wool. The robe had been a gift from Leliana, who was aware of his tendency to stalk the halls when he couldn’t sleep.

Slowly, Cullen emerged from his room and headed down the hall on silent feet. A young Sister spotted him and smiled, which he returned as he passed the massive doors to the war room. Slipping passed, his mind took note of a light streaming under the door, causing him to look back at it. What’s this? He moved closer and pressed his ear to the heavy wood, listening for voices. It wouldn’t be the first time Cassandra and Leliana had excluded him from a meeting, but the room was silent. It was possible that someone had left a candle burning, which would need to be snuffed out. His hand on the door, he considered turning it when he felt a sharp twinge in his groin. The candle could wait; his bladder would not be as forgiving.

Cullen removed his hand from the door and hurried to the privy, thankful that the Haven Chantry had moved beyond buckets and holes in the floor or more rustic, outdoor facilities. However cold it was inside, outside was a blizzard he preferred not to endure, even for a moment. After releasing what felt like the equivalent water of Lake Calenhad, Cullen pulled up his pants and washed his hands in a nearby basin, eager to see why a candle was still burning in the War Room at such a late hour.

As he once again reached for the door, he caught himself as a shadow visibly moved in front of the light source. Who would be in there at this hour? The ladies who had begun the Inquisition were not known for their quiet and nobody else had the right to be in here. His curiosity aside, it was his duty as Commander to their cause that made him retrieve his sword from his chamber and return to the War Room, ready to take on anything or anyone even in his robe and slippers.

He pushed open the door, his sword held high as he met the most beautiful pair of slanted, elven eyes he had ever seen. They were pale violet, which stood in contrast to her golden-brown skin and loose, black curls, which were tucked behind her gracefully tapered ears. She smiled, the expression causing those stunning eyes to dance above her cheeks. “Hello,” she welcomed him. “Little midnight training in your bed clothes?” she quipped with a little crooked smile that turned his knees to jelly.

“Wha—Oh! I apologize, Herald. I saw the light in the War Room and feared the worst. It is always best to be prepared, you understand,” he explained as he lowered the blade and tucked it into the sash at his waist.

“Yvara,” she corrected as she moved around the table to lean against it, her arms and ankles crossed, still wearing that amused grin.

“Er…” he started, his hazel eyes sliding up her body, which was adorned in a long nightgown the same hue as her eyes and a matching robe, which hung open, the sash hanging to the floor. The gown was made of fine silk and poured over her delicate features, leaving little to the imagination; his eyes, he confessed internally, may have lingered a touch too long on her small, upswept breasts and pert nipples. He immediately felt horrible for it and looked away at the wall behind her.

“Commander!” she barked, causing him to look back at her with wide eyes above blushing red cheeks.

“Y-yes, my lady?” he said, flushing redder than the robe he wore over his armor. Women didn’t usually have this effect on him; he wasn’t a virgin after all. But this woman… Maker, she had a hold on him that rendered him incapable of speech when he didn’t have work to distract him.

“My name is ‘Yvara’. You can also call me ‘Yvaralasalin’ but it’s a mouthful for most people, so, you can just call me ‘Yvara.’ The Keeper calls me ‘Yvie’, which is also fine, but only she has ever done it. Cullen?”

He was watching her face, the words providing an accompaniment to the beauty before him while making little sense. Unfortunately, his body was responding to his heightened attraction to her, which was made worse by the lack of control he had due to lyrium withdrawal. He was thankful for the robe as he searched for a place to stand where she wouldn’t notice. Thankfully, her eyes were on his, not his awkward position with his hands plunged into his pockets, fingers pushing out slightly to tent the fabric.

“…Commander Cullen, are you listening? Perhaps you should return to bed; you appear distracted and quite tired,” she said with a laugh.

“No, no my lady, I apologize. I was merely admiring y-the wall! I was admiring that fine—wall—behind you. You were saying?”

“The wall, eh?” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the featureless stone wall behind her. “It’s quite, ah, stunning… For a wall.” He was scratching the back of his neck, a sure sign that he was flustered. She found it adorable, really, and enjoyed the effect she was having on the former Templar. Could it be that the handsome commander was attracted to her, an elven mage? There were certain frightening rumors she had to dispel before inviting him into her life, especially with his history as a Templar. Varric knew him from Kirkwall and if a rumor existed, the dwarf had heard it. He would know fact from fiction and help her decide if pursuing the attractive warrior was worthwhile. For now, what was wrong with a bit of playful flirting?

“So, for the third time, it isn’t ‘Your Worship,’ ‘Your Grace’, ‘Herald’ or even ‘My Lady,’ it’s ‘Yvara’, ‘Ih-VAR-a’. Yvara. Though, ‘My Lady’ has a nice ring to it. Still, I’m no lady but a Keeper’s First and not entitled to the title.” She was standing on the other side of the table now, her left hand braced against it as she leaned over the huge map at its center. If he was distracted before, the sight of the gratuitous amount of smooth skin showing above the draping fabric as she reached across the table for a marker, had him spellbound.

Clearing his mind long enough to recall his power of speech, he nodded and smiled as he picked up the pawn she was reaching for and offered it to her from across the table. “It’s a beautiful name,” he murmured, flashing her a grin that left the mage momentarily stunned. “Does it mean anything in the elven language?” he asked softly.

Yvara took the marker from him and caught a glance of the finely chiseled chest beneath his shirt as he leaned over the table across from her. “Er—You mean my name?” Well, that sounded stupid. Of course, he meant my name! “No no, it’s just a name. It might have roots in the language of the ancient Elvhenan, which Solas might know, but I am not aware of any direct meaning.” She placed the marker on the map near the Hinterlands, scrutinizing the placement as she looked back at him. “Can I ask your advice?” she asked.

He moved around the table to her, nodded and absently ran his fingers through his short, blond curls and realized his hair was in its natural, tightly wound state. Normally, he had it slicked back and perfectly placed. To his embarrassment, Yvara was seeing it in its untamed condition. This prompted her to reach out and play with his hair, momentarily catching him off guard. It took everything he had not to kiss her in that playful moment; had he tried, she would not have resisted.

When the moment passed, they returned to the map and focused on the Hinterlands, which lay at Ferelden’s southern heart. “I leave for the road in a few hours to once again attempt to turn hearts and minds to the Inquisition. I don’t know where to begin, though. I thought I would start here, in the Hinterlands, which remains in chaos. I thought I would head to the Crossroads. There seems to be a great deal of conversation to be had in the area and we could use that to our advantage. Or we could approach from Redcliffe, which is a bustling town where good deeds could help to spread our message. Eliminating the rogue mages has helped, though the Templars remain a dangerous opposition; they’re hurting helpless civilians.” She looked up at him and back down at the map, her elbows propping her up and her dark hair spilling about her face.

He placed his hand on her back to comfort her, so she absently leaned against him, drawing strength from his large, powerful body. A shiver ran down his spine as she shifted against him, but he remained in place, comfortable for the moment as he looked over the map. “You know, maybe you have had enough of the Hinterlands. Look here: The Mire. There are rumors of strange happenings there, like undead in the water. You fix that, you’ll make waves among the populace.” He caught himself and smiled, “Pun not intended,” he added self-consciously. “There is also that region over here in Orlais, the Oasis? Scout Harding said something about a mining company that went missing and some other strange events. And we can never discount the effect of closing those breaches no matter where your travels take you.”

She nodded as she placed the marker in a new spot, happy with her decision. “The Storm Coast?” Cullen asked, surprise on his face. “That place is miserable,” he said with a chuckle.

“I like thunderstorms,” she smiled as she turned around and leaned back against the table to peer up at him. He was wonderfully tall and broad shouldered, even for a human. She wondered what he looked like under all that fabric.

“Do you want to go somewhere and talk? If Leliana or Josie find us together, they’re bound to tease me. I get enough of that from my sisters and I don’t have to work with them,” he said shyly. Yvara nodded, pleased with the suggestion, since there were still people awake, partying long into the night. She suddenly felt a chill run down her spine that had nothing to do with Cullen or the cold; something was warning her to stay alert.

They found a little alcove away from the busier parts of the small Chantry where they were able to drag a couple of chairs and just talk about whatever came to mind. Cullen found in Yvara a friend and trusted ally, someone who listened without judgement and accepted what he said at face value. Once, he went off on a tangent about fighting techniques, which he realized were more helpful to fighters than mages but Yvara gamely followed along, adding her own perspective to the conversation.

This delighted him. While he wasn’t especially verbose, he did enjoy stimulating conversation when it came up. Cullen especially enjoyed telling stories about his time as a new templar recruit, which were often quite hilarious. Yvara had her own stories, like the time she was forced to kill a drake, long before she joined the Inquisition. She had never killed a dragon before and this dragon, while a male and much smaller than a high dragon, was still majestic and beautiful to her. She still carried around one of his teeth as a memento.

During the conversation, he learned that her favorite color was turquois, her favorite food was roast quail with small, spring potatoes (and she could cook very well, thank you), and her favorite activity was getting lost in the woods where she could just explore and commune with nature. From him, she learned that his favorite color was green, that he had three siblings (two amazing sisters, a younger brother and a nephew he had never met) and that he had a dream of building a house in Ferelden with his own hands when he was no longer needed in the Inquisition.

As they talked, he learned that Yvara enjoyed the exploration aspect of her current job as Herald of Andraste, though she struggled with the morality of it since she wasn’t convinced the woman she met in the Fade was Andraste herself. “Who do you think it was?” he asked softly.

“A-a spirit, perhaps of compassion? I don’t know for sure.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “It feels wrong to mislead them.”

Cullen reached across the space between them and took her hand, aware that the sun was gracing the horizon with a faint, pale glow; they had been talking for hours and he was now thoroughly exhausted. Still, this was something that needed to be addressed. He placed her hand against his knee and touched her chin with a finger, raising it so that their eyes could meet. “You can’t say for certain that it wasn’t Andraste, though, can you?”

She shook her head, her eyes momentarily locked on his. “I suppose not, no,” she admitted softly. He squeezed her hand gently, encouraging her.

“Then, for now, tell people what you know will inspire them. You don’t have to tell people you’re Andraste’s Herald, just let them assume you are and be content with that. If they ask, you can tell them she may have been. But right now, the people need something, someone to believe in and that someone is you in your capacity as Andraste’s messenger.”

She searched his face, looking for his personal opinion on the subject. “Do you believe that it was Andraste I met in the Fade?” she asked.

He tilted his head thoughtfully and scratched his chin, momentarily distracted by the roughness of his bewhiskered face and his need to shave. “I—don’t know. Maybe. Yes? What I do know is that believing it was Andraste gives me courage as a loyal follower of her. It makes me believe that this Inquisition we’ve begun has a chance to succeed now that we have evidence that she is aware of it and us in turn. Sometimes belief is all we need, you know?”

She brightened the moment with a smile and rose to her feet, her small hand still cradled in his. She was a slight woman, her delicate stature belying the power contained within her. He looked down at the hand he was holding and turned it over as he stood. There, in her palm was the anchor she closed the rifts with. Right now, it was quiet; a brightly glowing, green ribbon slicing across her tanned skin that put off faint tendrils of light as she moved. He ran the index finger of his other hand along the cut, surprised at the tingling it caused. “Does it hurt?” he asked, touching it again. It was a wound that would normally be painful, bleeding red and a cause for concern, but Yvara simply looked on as he lightly touched it.

“It’s strange,” she mused as she watched his finger glide along the rift. “Normally, it does hurt when people touch it but you—don’t hurt. Your touch is nice,” she admitted with a flush in her cheeks. Gods, she thought, as she suddenly felt like a shy adolescent facing her crush for the first time.

They stood together for a moment, lost in the connection between them before Cullen broke the silence with a small cough. “I believe we should go to bed,” he said hoarsely.

“Oh?” Yvara said with a quirked eyebrow.

“Our beds! Individual beds! In our own rooms. Maker help me. Come on, I’ll walk you to your chamber.”

They walked silently until they reached her door, which was on the opposite end of the hall where his room was located. She smiled up at him and said, “This evening was nice. I don’t think I have ever spoken for so many hours with anyone without quickly being bored to tears. Thank you.”

He returned her smile and reached out to stroke her black curls with his fingertips; Maker, her hair was soft. He longed wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her hair. He opened her door for her and stepped aside as she entered. “I enjoyed this as well. Let me know if you want to talk again; I will make certain that I am free.”

Yvara stood up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I will. You’re easy to talk to, Commander Cullen Rutherford. We will do this again.”

She closed the door, leaving Cullen alone with his thoughts as he headed back down the hall to his room. As he arrived, Leliana approached and raised an eyebrow at him. “Is our dear Commander only now just going to bed? I thought I heard voices. Did the Herald enjoy herself as much as you did?”

“Maker’s breath!” he said, rushing off to his room without answering her, his cheeks burning once more. There was no doubt in his heart, however, that he was deeply attracted to the delicate Dalish mage. The house he dreamed of building now had a new addition: a woman with short black curls, violet eyes and a lopsided grin that made him giddy every time he saw it.

As he removed his clothes and prepared for bed once more, he said a prayer: “Maker, protect this woman and these people from the monster we will soon face so that what we felt tonight does not die, must not die. Maker, preserve us all in these hours we will have to face, so let it be.” He then moved the rug from the end of the bed to a spot beside the bed and placed his slippers nearby. With a final thought for what he hoped would be a long future of these conversations, he covered himself with the blankets and drifted off to sleep.

…Until the bells of alarm rang out through the Chantry, alerting him and all those who sought shelter within it that Corypheus’ forces had arrived. It was finally time to face the Templars and the army they would soon be facing. He had trained his men for months for this night; it was time to see if their preparations would succeed.

So much for sleep, he thought as he climbed out of bed, his feet touching soft fur instead of cold stone.

-Fin-


End file.
